


The First Time

by irrevocably-johnlocked (AurielleDawn)



Series: First Times [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Feels, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Virgin Sherlock, talking it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:20:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AurielleDawn/pseuds/irrevocably-johnlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's marriage is officially over.  He's got Sherlock alone.  He has some definite ideas about what to do from there.  But he forgot about one little thing...</p><p>***</p><p>My hands go to the front of his trousers, and then I stop myself, pulling away enough to speak, although my breathing is labored and I have to try twice to get the words out.  “Sherlock, have you done this before?”  He freezes for a second, panting, one hand at the small of my back, tucked under my waistband, and the other splayed across my back under my shirt.  He licks his lips and shakes his head, and I have a moment of absolutely no idea how to feel about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Time

**Author's Note:**

> Note that several months have passed since the last installment of this fic. The baby has been born and Mary has had time to be up and about, wreaking havoc. 
> 
> (Note that I've done a small edit that clarifies the situation with the baby.)
> 
> Further note that I'm changing my pseud on my Johnlock fic so tumblr followers can find me.

We’re at one of Sherlock’s bolt-holes, a shabby little hotel where they let us in through the kitchen door after a coded knock and showed us immediately and quietly to an undistinguished room featuring a bed and a couple of chairs. Things are too hot to go back to Baker Street right now, and we don’t have time for anything more than a few hours’ rest, anyway. I suspect we’re both too keyed up to sleep, though we need it. Even Sherlock. 

We both shrug out of our jackets, Sherlock removing his scarf and suit jacket as well, and dumping it all unceremoniously on one of the chairs. Then he starts pacing, his phone out, either running searches or texting Mycroft. Probably both. I run my hands over my face, rubbing the bridge of my nose. I’m humming with energy, and there isn’t room for both of us to pace. 

It’s been one hell of a fucking day. Particularly the part where I had my handgun pointed at my wife’s heart. Although, to be fair, hers was pointed at Sherlock’s. That was all inevitable, really. I’m not even upset about it. I realized that the moment I saw her gun trained on Sherlock and didn’t hesitate to pull mine. She was a bit surprised, but not much. Mary’s a smart girl, after all. I wasn’t going to let her kill him twice. 

Not that the marriage hadn't been over already - the DNA test pretty much took care of that, along with the mounting evidence leading to today's standoff. But there's something about pointing a gun at a person that really says _We're through_. And we haven’t spoken about it, he and I, except his briefly stepping in to hold my eyes when it was over, asking quietly, _Are you alright?_ I was feeling nothing but relief in that moment, and he must have seen it, because he accepted my, _Yeah_ , with a nod and moved on to the next thing. That was hours ago. 

I should take a shower or lie down or something, but instead I’m staring at him as he paces, looking a little rumpled but absolutely wired, nothing but nervous energy. It’s not a big room. He has to walk past me in the few paces he can take, and the next time he does, I put a hand on his chest and shove him up against the nearest wall, grabbing a handful of hair to pull him down to me, and absolutely diving into him. He freezes for half a second, but when he responds, sweet Jesus. He’s tossed the phone somewhere, and his hands are spread across my back, pulling me into him, tugging my shirt out of my trousers. And we’re all tongues and teeth and adrenaline, and I just want to bury myself in him. Have wanted it, for so long, particularly on nights like this, when we’ve just run something down and we’re both still high from the chase. He slides down the wall so we’re level, and I shift his legs so I can grind against him. _Christ_ , we’re both hard already, and we gasp into one another’s mouths, the sensation too much, even through the layers of clothing. 

My hands go to the front of his trousers, and then I stop myself, pulling away enough to speak, although my breathing is labored and I have to try twice to get the words out. “Sherlock, have you done this before?” He freezes for a second, panting, one hand at the small of my back, tucked under my waistband, and the other splayed across my back under my shirt. He licks his lips and shakes his head, and I have a moment of absolutely no idea how to feel about that. I had suspected, but we never… Does he mean not with a man or…? “With…with anyone?” He swallows and shakes his head again, and this time he looks a little…uncertain. So I lift a hand to run up the back of his neck, and I nuzzle against him, taking his mouth in small, pressing kisses, slowing things down, trying to reassure him and deescalate. Still struggling to control myself. No fucking up against the wall, then. _Pull it together, Watson._

And then a bit of doubt hits me, because he _seems_ …but… _dammit._ Even with him hard and panting against me, I’m suddenly afraid the clues don’t add up to what it seems they should. Because Sherlock’s sexuality has always been a complete mystery to me. And loving someone doesn’t necessary equate to sex. Even I know that. 

”But you do…” I pull back enough to look into his face, to really see him. “Sherlock, you do _want_ this? You…want _me_ …like this.” He huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh, searching my eyes. Then he pulls back a little bit, really considering me. And I just look at him, because I don’t know what that means. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, he’s looking at me in a way that I don’t trust yet. But I desperately want to. And then he’s somehow turned us, so I’m the one pressed against the wall, and he’s staring down at me with that particular intensity of his. He presses into me until he’s hovering a breath away, and he whispers my name in a way that makes my heart hurt. “John.” He brushes against me, bumping our noses, breath warm against my skin. “I have never in my life wanted anything the way I want you. I denied it to myself for so long, tried to pretend it wasn’t there, that I didn’t need you. And then when it finally came crashing in on me, I had to start using again to drown it out, because I couldn’t bear the loss of you.”

I put a hand on the nape of his neck, anchoring myself, and shake my head helplessly. “Sherlock.” 

“I am yours, John. In any way you want me. In any way you’ll have me.” When he pulls back, the naked need in his eyes takes my breath away. I bury my hands in his hair and pull him close, until our foreheads are resting together, just breathing. We’re both trembling slightly, and it’s overwhelming, this moment. The reality that we can be _us_ now. And it’s been so very, very long in coming, and we’ve both been so hurt along the way. It’s going to be a process, healing those wounds, coming to trust this, untangling all the half truths and careful deceptions. Learning to talk about it. And I suddenly want that desperately, more than I want the sex, and God, that’s still burning through me. 

I pull away and tug on his hand. “Come on.” I lead him toward the bed, kicking off my shoes and socks, unbuttoning my cuffs. He follows suit, and I draw him down on top of the comforter, both of us still fully clothed. I pull a pillow down under our heads and lie on my side facing him, and he mirrors me. We’re just far enough apart to not quite be touching, and he looks a little tense and uncertain. I reach out to run my hand slowly along his jaw, over the nape of his neck, drawing my thumb along his implausible cheekbone, and then lightly over his ridiculously full bottom lip. He relaxes slightly into the pillow, eyes on my face, watching me look at him. “So gorgeous,” I whisper, and his lips quirk slightly, eyes softening. I run my hand into his hair, kneading his scalp, and he closes his eyes, making a small sound of approval, relaxing more. I lean in to brush my lips against his, just an invitation, an offer, and he moves up to capture them. 

We haven’t shard many kisses, and none like this, all aching need and slow promise, tongues barely dancing across one another. And I could get lost in his amazing mouth and the slow burn of tasting him like this. His arm comes up to wrap around my waist and pull our bodies together, and he deepens the kiss, drawing into me. I let him take the lead, because I want him comfortable, want him to feel safe and in control before we take the next step. And then I want to pull him apart.

He rolls backwards, tugging me with him, not breaking the kiss. I brace above him, shifting until I’m between his legs, pressed against him. We’re getting more urgent now, back to tongues and teeth and that fire blazing through my body. I grind into him, and we both groan, low in our throats, the sound captured between our joined mouths. We come up for air, panting, staring at one another. His eyes have gone nearly black, and his lips are full and kiss-reddened, and it’s literally painful how beautiful he is. I stare down at him and give a slight grin. “D’you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to get you in this position?”

He huffs out a laugh, and pulls me in for another kiss. When he pulls away, he’s smiling. But then the smile goes a bit dark around the edges, and he bites his bottom lip, scraping his teeth across it slowly. He has apparently figured out how much I like his mouth. My breath hitches, and a fresh supply of blood rushes from my brain to areas lower. He all but purrs, his deep voice vibrating up my spine, smoky eyes locked on mine. “Well, you have me now, John Watson. What are you going to do with me?”

 _Christ._ My eyes go unfocused, and he likes that, grinning sexily. It occurs to me that he never knew he had this power before. That I’ve been staring at him for years when he wasn’t watching, wanting him desperately and pretending I didn’t. And in all the months since that first confession of his feelings, he’s done nothing to push me, nothing to tempt me. We’ve acted like we always did, but with the desperate overtone of our feelings for one another, known but unspoken, except in dire circumstances, out of fear for one another or chased by adrenaline. He’s never tried to seduce me before, and if this first effort is any indication, he’s going to be bloody brilliant at it. 

But he’s asked me a question, and I have an answer for him. I lean into him, tangling my hands in his hair, still braced on my elbows. _What are you going to do with me?_ I stare into his lust-darkened eyes, and I almost whisper. “Love you for the rest of my life.” 

The grin falls from his lips and his eyes widen slightly. He moves a hand to my hair and breathes my name. “John.” And I will do anything in the world to keep him saying my name like that. I lean in and capture his lips, another slow exploration, one of his hands in my hair and the other pressing long fingers down my lower back, pulling me into him. I begin to move against him, and he sighs against my lips. I take it slow this time, building the fire back up, the hunger painted with tenderness and a wanting that’s so much more than just sex. We unbutton one another’s shirts slowly as we go, exploring the skin that’s revealed. We manage to get out of our shirts and socks somewhere during this process, until we’re pressed skin-to-skin, and he’s running a foot up and down my calf as I slowly explore him. 

When he’s beginning to pant again, making desperate noises low in his throat, and I can’t bear the feeling of his hard length against mine, even through our clothes, I pull back a bit and run a hand down to the snaps on his trousers. “Alright?” I breathe against his lips. “Yes,” he whispers, taking my mouth again. And then his hands are moving as well, and we’re unsnapping, unzipping, lifting our hips, shoving down with our hands, and then giggling a bit as our legs and trousers and pants and hands all get tangled together. When we’ve finally managed to kick everything off, he drops back on the bed and huffs. “Dear God! That was absurd.” He catches my eye, and we both burst into laugher, my face buried in his chest, his body shaking against me. 

When I raise my head to look at him, his eyes are sparkling, and he runs a hand over my cheek. His voice is soft. “I love this. I love having this with you.” And I smile at him and say, “I know.” He’s pressed against my stomach, so incredibly hard, and I’m aching to put my hands and mouth on him. I pull myself up his body and capture his mouth, rubbing our erections together and making us both gasp. I break away and look into his eyes again, running a thumb over the corner of his mouth. “Sherlock, I want to touch you. May I?” His mouth quirks and again he whispers, “Yes.” 

When I take his mouth this time, it’s more insistent. I delve into him, tongue exploring, drawing low moans in his rich baritone that vibrate through my body. I run a hand down his side and around his hip, and when my hand closes over him, he breaks the kiss on a gasp, and I close my eyes, just savoring the feel of him. He’s incredibly hard, long and elegant, just like the rest of him. I capture his mouth again, lapping at him in rhythm with my hand moving along his length. His breathing is ragged, and his incredible hands are everywhere. And I desperately want him to touch me, want to know what his clever, elegant fingers could do to me. But there’s something else I want more, and I need it like air. I break away and my voice is ragged when I speak, still fisting him slowly. “I want to taste you.” He’s absolutely trembling, eyes wide and glazed, and he brushes his lips against mine and whispers, “Yes.” 

He makes a soft pained sound when I release him, but I bring my body closer, and he splays his hands across my back. I start working my way down his body, nipping at his pulse, licking across his collarbone. I barely brush his nipples, because he’s so hypersensitive already, and just that little contact makes him arch. And I want this to last, so I keep my touch light, teasing. 

I run my fingertips across the scar on his chest, still a shocking pink against his pale skin, such a small mark to have nearly taken him from me. I run my tongue across it lightly, looking up to meet his eyes. And he knows what I’m thinking. _This could have happened again today,_ and she wouldn’t have gone for the slow kill this time, wouldn’t have risked it. He smiles at me, just a crook of his mouth through the haze, and brushes back the hair at my temple. “I’m fine, John. You were there.” 

And I nod and nuzzle into his sternum, continuing my slow progression down his body. I haven’t even really _looked_ at him, yet, and God, I want to. But I’m afraid of spooking him, of making him uncomfortable. When I’ve reached his navel, I flick my tongue into it, making him chuckle, and I smile at him, because I love it when he laughs for me. I move down ever so slightly to run my chin over his tip, and he sucks in a breath. And I sit up enough to look at him then, and he is… _breathtaking_. I sweep my eyes over him, and when I reach his face again, he looks a little bashful. So I tell him. “You’re beautiful.” My voice is soft and as sincere as I can make it. “So gorgeous it makes my heart hurt. I’ve always thought so. From the first moment I saw you.” And I look him over again, sprawled out beneath me, pale skin flushed, hair tousled and lips kiss-reddened, hard and panting lightly, and I let my desire show in my eyes and roughen my voice. “And, Jesus, Sherlock, you should see yourself.”

And words fail me, so I decide to just stop talking. I lower myself slowly, holding his eyes as I lick up his shaft with the flat of my tongue, then twirl it around the tip. He makes a strangled noise and his eyes roll back. And, _Christ_ , he’s so beautifully responsive. I want him panting out my name and thrashing beneath me, so I take him into my mouth in one long sweep. His entire body tenses, his head thrown back, hands fisting in the sheets. I start a rhythm, taking him to the back of my throat and pulling up, swirling my tongue along his glans and then taking him deep again. And he starts this beautiful litany of syllables in his gorgeous dark voice. My name interspersed with pleas and eloquent curses, punctuated with moans and gasps. It’s bloody gorgeous, too beautiful to be real. And, God, the feel and taste of him. I have to stop myself from rutting against the sheets, afraid I’ll come just from having him in my mouth, the noises he’s making, and the picture of him, muscles rippling and gleaming with sweat. He starts panting my name over and over, and I dimly realize the sound has become urgent. “John, stop. Stop. Please.” He grabs a handful of my hair and tugs, and I pull off with a last long lick. He’s shuttering, looking absolutely wrecked, gulping in deep breaths. “I’m too close. I won’t last.” 

I grin up at him, licking my lips and nuzzling against his hipbone. “I can finish you like this.” My voice is low, and it sends a shiver through him. “Make you come in my mouth. I would love that.” My smile softens. “And we’ve got time for the rest. I want to give this to you.”

He shutters again, eyes closing. “God, John. It is ridiculous the effect you have on me. I have completely lost control of myself.”

My grin widens. “That’s just the way I want you.” He opens his eyes to glare at me, but it’s somewhat less effective than usual, when he’s panting and flushed, his recent litany of obscenities still hanging in the air. I laugh, and he huffs at me. I nuzzle at his pelvic bone again, and his breath catches. He’s still painfully hard. We both are. I lift my head, sobering. “Tell me what you want, love. And I’ll give it to you. We don’t have to worry about me tonight. I want this to be about you.”

He looks at me and shakes his head, and I can see him struggling, the cogs in his brain starting to grind together, and that’s decidedly _not good._ I pull myself up until I’m laying beside him, tangling a hand in his hair and bringing his forehead to mine. “You’re overthinking.” I almost whisper. “There’s no wrong answer here, Sherlock. I love you and I want you, and I will give you anything, _anything_ you want right now. I want to make you come for me, but I don’t want to push you too far too fast.” I lean in to kiss him, and he melts against me, opening for me, tongue sweeping over mine. Then he pulls away, brushing his nose against mine, breathing my name again.

I pull away enough to really see him. “Look. Sherlock. Neither of us is particularly good at talking about our feelings, and God knows that’s what’s taken us so long to get here. But we have to start trying.” 

He looks at me for a moment and then nods, looking away. “You’re right. This is…difficult for me. I feel very out of my depth.” 

I tuck a curl behind his ear. “I know. I do. Better than you think.”

He gives me that bare half smile and pulls me close, wrapping a long leg around my hip and brushing our noses together. He closes his eyes and just breathes against me for a moment. “John, I spent years denying my feelings for you, and this entire past year attempting to keep myself from expressing them in any obvious way. I don’t know how to let myself want you. I don’t know how to allow _in_ everything I’ve been pushing away. I’m just…I’m a little overwhelmed.” 

I nod and run a hand through his hair. “We can take this slow. We don’t have to do this tonight. I shouldn’t have pushed it before we’d talked things out.” 

He shakes his head. “No, I want this.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I want… _this_.” And he nuzzles against me, pulling our bodies together, and my eyes close at the feel of him against me. When I open them, he’s looking at me, a breath away, eyes intense. “I want _you_. Against me like this. I want your mouth on mine. I want us to come together, and I want to be looking at you when it happens.” 

And I smile for him and say, “Yes. God, yes.” And then I give him what wants. 

I take him apart, piece by piece, and revel in his hands on me, the taste and feel of him. Bodies moving against one another, hands grasping, swallowing one another’s moans and gasps. Lips and tongues and the light scrape of teeth, mouths never parting except to murmur one another’s names. And when he gets there, skirting the edge, just the sight of him, wrecked and panting, the sound of my name on his lips, brings me that last little bit. And when he comes, I come with him, and we’re looking into one another’s eyes, panting, muscles tense, limbs tangled together. It’s incredibly, shockingly intimate. 

We ease one another down, hands slowing and stilling, muscles relaxing, sharing small kisses, because his mouth is just too tempting. He drops his head to my chest, and we lie there together, pulses slowing, sweat drying, basking in the afterglow and the weight of something so much more. 

After a moment, he raises his head to look at me, eyes soft, face peaceful and open. “Is it always like this?” And I know the question’s not generic. He wants to know if it’s always like this _for me._

I shake my head, my heart hurting. “No. Not with someone you don’t love. It’s not at all like this.” There’s suddenly a lump in my throat, and I breathe around it. “This was—“ I break off, having no words, shaking my head hopelessly. And he lets out a breath, smiling around eyes gone damp, and says, “I’m glad.” He rests his head back on my chest, and I just hold him for a little while. 

When the endorphins begin to wear off, I realize that we’re both sticky and chilled, and something should be done about that. It’s a measure of how distracted I was that I didn’t get us cleaned up immediately. I shift a bit and say, “Come on. Shower.” He makes an affirmative humming sound, and I pull away, leaving him to shift back onto the pillow. He looks thoroughly debauched, and utterly blissful, two words I never thought I’d use about Sherlock Holmes. I smile down at him, eyes warming. “I’ll get it going. Come warm up.” He nods and watches me as I leave the room, going into the bath and turning on the water. 

When it’s warm, I step in and call softly, “Coming?” When he steps into the room he looks a little bashful again, which should be funny, but it’s just really adorable. I grin at him and say, “Come on, then.” He steps under the water, humming contentedly at the warmth, and I pull him down for a kiss, nuzzling against him. He wraps his arms around me, and we snog lazily for a few minutes and then wash up, savoring the freedom to touch one another however we want, talking and laughing a bit. When we’re warm and clean and relaxed, we dry off and crawl into bed naked, snuggling together in a pile of blankets, Sherlock’s long limbs wrapped around mine. He’s retrieved his phone and put it on the nightstand, and I’m guessing we’ll get about two hours to actually sleep, maybe three if we’re lucky, before we’re on to the next thing. 

I’m just dozing off, one hand curled in his damp curls, when he murmurs against my neck, “John?” I make a questioning _hmmm_ sound. “Thank you,” he whispers. My heart clenches, and I pull him closer. “You’re welcome, love.”


End file.
